Growth
by ejunkie
Summary: The final collection of my entries to the hetalia contest community for nearly a year. Three-legged alliances  FrUk  RuLat , the growth of love, the pain of dissolution, and junk food of the root-canal variety. FruUk, PruHung, Ludwig/Antonio.
1. Threelegged alliances

**Growth**

_This is a 'lost' drabble set, containing several short pieces or writing and entries written for Hetalia_contest nearly… two years ago. There are a few entries that placed in the contest here (including one first); it was a good community, it sucks that it couldn't maintain the activity._

_This drabble set…. Represents my mind, for a year. It presents a lot of my opinionated views and canon!verses, and I hope you enjoy it._

**Disclaimer: none of the characters portrayed within belong to me; they are used, abused and played with, but returned safely. The characters may be based off of events but entirely subjectively, and therefore bare little affiliation with any named Countries or States as a citizen of the named state would.**

**A FURTHER NOTE: these will be set out in two-story sections, where applicable, by theme.**

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong> Amidst the shells of the Western Front, Francis learns the true meaning of 'The Allies'. A version of the D-Day Invasion.

_AN/_ This one shot one first place at the Hetalia_contest livejournal community.

**Alliances**

There was the sound of tearing fabric, before he felt cold fingers on his skin, his shiver at the icy touch indistinguishable from the tremors of his muscles as the hands progressed tentatively down his leg. The washing fog that swamped his head, making it hard to think without pain, revealed that he'd blacked out, although the fact that he could still feel anything at all, along with the cold, wet, slick feeling of the mud beneath him, also revealed that he had not been moved. His fingers twitched as the hands brushed across an open cut, withdrawing briefly at the touch of blood, before resuming their search. So this was the result of the invasion. To be hastily and messily searched in the mud of his ruined country, by his so called 'virtuous conqueror'.

Even if it was times of war, he'd expected more of the _allemand salaud_.

The search continued with increased thoroughness, the hands now silently, but efficiently, removing the excess of cloth that had been destroyed over the past couple of months, and, as his examiner found the area of infection, he was forced to clench down on his jaw muscles to muffle any sign of his awareness, almost biting through his tongue as pausing only momentarily, the other tore through the last of the tatters of his cuffs, the black, dried mass of clotted blood tearing too. There was the scuffle of boots in mud, as they examined the extent of the damage and Francis tasted the salt tang of metal in his mouth, before a moment of silence as they clearly finished their assessment.

"Shit."

The unforgiving fingers again, this time on his other, uninjured leg, patting it down briefly before moving back up to remove his belt and gun holster, dumping the items unceremoniously on the floor. There was another curse at the increase in tremors along Francis' body, despite is resistance, the mans disruption of the folds of his jacket sending a short, leaching draft of cold air that seeped away at what little heat he'd managed to conserve; before he felt the body heat of another against his cheek, and the fingers found his neck. His breath caught, and his eyes shot open, fingers twitching upward despite the situation to grasp the enclosed hand weakly, before freezing as he met startled olive eyes. There was a second, before he found his voice enough to manage a whisper.

"…Arthur?"

They stared at each other for a moment; the shock at his apparent awareness evident in the opposing mans face, before a blinding light ricocheted into the sky, throwing the whole area into sharp relief. The grime on the British man's face was illuminated, and as he looked back with a muffled 'shit!', Francis caught sight of the ships.

The British... had come back.

His half delirious mind didn't know what to make of that.

"Can you walk?"

It took him a second to break away from his thoughts and fully comprehend the question, but he couldn't help the look of incredulity that breached his features at the notion; never mind the situation, he couldn't concentrate on that right now - did this little man really think that if he could walk, he'd be lying here in the mud? His indignant laughter deteriorated into a coughing fit, however, before he could really sustain it, and with another curse from his inpromptu companion, his back was supported, until he could lean forward and cough up the black soot lining his lungs. After his breathing had settled, Arthur gave the cut on his leg another glance, before he threw away the scraps of bandage he'd managed to come up with in his earlier search. "Shit, Francis. What do you think _we are trying to do here_? You have limited food rations, no ammunition- you don't even have _the medical supplies to treat yourself_-"

There was a boom outside, before the patter of shrapnel, muffled only slightly by the frozen sand, reached them through the flickering light of the flare, and he could just make out the pain that flitted across the mans face as Arthur looked back to his ships. There was a startling crash, and he winced as his instinctive jolt relighted the burn in his leg, before he caught the sight of the new bout of flames as it sprang up on one of the front most battleships. The accompanying vibrations caused another section of their trench to collapse, splattering the two of them with mud.

A clatter in front of him brought his attention back to the British soldier as he returned his gun; before his eyes moved back to his with new focus and Francis felt his breath catch in his throat under its intensity.

"You're coming with me, Francis. To England."

_How was he meant to deal with this?_

He was frozen as Arthur leant forward, arm slipping beneath the other man until he had him pulled him up abreast, and the other was forced to cling to him as he gasped to breathe through the pain as his leg was disturbed. With a further sigh, he was moving again, and the elder man barely had the chance to cough out a slightly indignant 'wait' before the air carrying the words was pushed out of him, and he was hauled onto narrow shoulders. He took a few steps to the entrance of the trench, stumbling only slightly on the uneven ground, before he paused at the entrance, surveying the pockmarked distance between them and the open ships.

"Just shut up, you French bastard_._ As if we'd leave you behind. We are the 'Allies', three legged or no."

* * *

><p><strong>HEAT-SEAKING MISSILES<strong>

**AN/ **This is set in the beginning of 1939/41, where Russia reclaimed the Baltic states. It has hints of trust and relations I haven't gone into much, and although based on that time, is not really historically accurate, more of my fandom slipping through. xD Ivan and Latviaaaa. 3

**Warmth. **

When he awoke, warm, tentative fingers were smoothing across his torso. The touch was light, trailing light circles around his biceps, defining the ligaments, before the palms flattened to his skin; and the heat, warm, dithering, as if undecided, stayed. Ivan kept his eyes closed, his breathing regular. This was unusual of his friend, his little country; it seemed he didn't know he was awake. Light violet flashed slightly at the small brush of air that touched his back, Latvia's breaths, that smoothed into a constant rhythm, as if he would be about to sleep. He physcially relaxed, guard down; in Ivans bed, Ivans room, the worn, tattered paintings of sunflowers that had lightened it for years a pathetiic excuse for an idea of was little else to say, except that this move surprised him. As the hands paused slightly, and he felt the slight pang of regret, and the bite of ice that passed through the thin sheets, he was even stretched to say he surprised himself.

The hands resumed, moving slowly over his skin to settle at the base of his chest. Lost in the moment, Ivan remembered a second after he shifted- and his eyes flicked open to focus on the darkened sheets as he felt the hands retreat rapidly. The sheets rustled as he shifted his arm around, bringing himself up, before he looked over, calm purple meeting startled blue as they fluttered rapidly behind panicked lashes. This confirmed one thing, at least; he _hadn't _known he was awake, the prior movements were no trick -unless he had planned this- and the thought warmed him, in the cold room, as he reached out to brush the others cheek. He ignored the skin as it trembled lightly under his fingers. The messed strands trembled slightly as well, as he leaned over, careful, as if handling something delicate, and took a hold of the other mans shoulders, dipping his head to smell the golden strands of his hair; he could almost smell the sea on those strands, kissed by the sun.

His fingers moved farther, entangling into the warm strands of hair, until he, himself, could feel the heat, relayed by the sun, between his fingers. His grip tightened, ignorant of the little whimpers beneath him, as he turned, his body moving up and over, and he clutched the man, no, his prize, to himself. His grip only broke –slightly-, as there was a slightly larger yelp, and light purple irises finally open again as Ivan looked down at his nation, trailing his nose lightly through the sandy rays until he could he could kiss the flash of pale skin that he could reach. It was possessive, he was being possessive, he knew- but Stalin wouldn't know, couldn't know, and... it would be the only thing he would truly claim as his own, as it was the only thing he could claim, no one could take it from him. And, after all his work, it would be a gift; a gift he would award himself.

The body stilled beneath him, folding more comfortably into him, and Ivan felt the fire die down, the room cooling, and he let his grip loosen around the man. The other man made no more movement, consenting, finally, but the warmth had left, and Ivan moved back entirely, rocking back into the bed slowly, controlled, eyes still on the other man incase there was any other movement. There wasn't, and, uncomfortable in the silence, Ivan sent him a small, apologetic smile, the words light and vaguely amused in the fading room.

"Thank you, for coming back, Latvia. We missed you."

Silence greeted him as the young man made no response, and he waited until the breif rustle that signified a small, shaky nod, as this was how their relationship was, and was meant to be.

**Other notes**: It is of my opinion that Ivan is obsessed with heat, and when communist, doesn't follow his own rules.


	2. Dissolution: bleeding hearts and trails

**Dissolution**.

_Summary_: _Two shorts on Prussia's dissolution, and the effect it has on those few who care._

**Disclaimer: none of the characters portrayed within belong to me; they are used, abused and played with, but returned safely. The characters may be based off of events but entirely subjectively, and therefore bare little affiliation with any named Countries or States as a citizen of the named state would.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>ONE<br>**_

_AN/ The new pornographers - Bleeding Heart Show_

_**Bleeding heart songs**_

"Hungary." His words, smooth in that low tenor of his that purred at her across the short distance between them, bemused, his smirk triumphant in the half light. "Did you really think I'd leave you behind?"

"I think the point is I have no idea what to think. You left before."

"Well, yes, but I coul-"

She shook her head violently, interrupting him, as she tried to calm the increasing trembles of her muscles. "But what? You _left_, Gilbert, left! How the- how the hell am I meant to trust you that this… that this now will be possible, and that you won't just disappear on me again- like last time?"

Hungary turned away from him, arm raising to shield her face as Gilbert stared at her, the ruby tint of his eye unreadable in the darkness- she would not let him know just how much this effected her, as damn it, it shouldn't. There was a sudden gust of wind from behind her, the tattered remnants of red from the once glorious cloak licking out from behind him like a cow whip. Her eyes locked on the flash of color, the blurred and bloodied streaks it left in its wake. Traitorous, for such a well-cared for cloth, well tended, regal even. Yet everything it touched, it left bleeding.

She'd known that the man would do the same, when she'd set her pen to the treaty, the declaration of their war, the German Empire's war, the bland smiles of the politicians surrounding her as they'd shaken hands, but the other mans eyes never left hers, or the hand of the Austrian placed firmly around her waist- she'd known, even when her inhibitions had broken, and, leaving Roderich, the man she'd loved, she'd crossed the very same pavilion, now dirt-streaked and stinking of soot residue in the wake of the bombs, and taken Gilbert's outstretched hand; followed him through to the bedroom as his mouth touched hers, and his hands followed her body, setting off the tingles of fire with his touch. When their lips had touched for that final time the next morning, burning, craving between them, as he was summoned to the Reichstag, and she could once again imagine the bland faces of the politicians smiling, content, as his land, his name, his being, was dissolved, and he'd disappeared.

She felt something wet trickle down her cheek, and almost as if from a distance, she heard herself emit a short gasp of surprise as she reached up to it, green staring mutedly at the slick of wet against her palm. There was a flicker of movement in front of her, but she didn't look up- she was crying.

The tears turned to blood, as Ludwig had taken her into his arms, similarly shaking as her hands beat at his shoulders, and she screamed at the so called 'fuhrer' sitting behind his desk, sheets of declarations of annulations calm crinkling lightly under his grasp, before the SS official had entered, and hailing loudly into the air, had brought his weapon cracking down across her back, the other German – their own country, for gods sake- after. In the jail, as Ludwig's hands never left her shoulders, but he never looked at her, lost in his thoughts, she'd finally cried herself out, amongst the blood and the filth. And with his disappearance, she'd accepted her new reality.

Her fingers clenched lightly back in on themselves, and she closed her eyes with them. But he had come back, and said he loved her.

He said, that he'd never leave her, ever, ever again. But he'd said it before.

"You can give me no guarantee, can you? You can't just come here-" her hand brandished wildly outwards, colliding with cloth, but she just withdrew it and kept her eyes shut. "-after all this time, and expect it all, this, to be ok. _You liar_."

There was a noise in front of her, and she finally looked up, dulled green blinking tiredly as the red cloak fell from Gilbert's shoulders, his grip loosening on the cloth before he let it go completely. She blinked as the wind caught it, sending it whipping wildly into the sky, before Gilbert took a step towards her, eyes serious, and he dropped the glove from his mouth as the cool skin of his hand met her chin.

"I may be many things, Eliza. But I am not a liar." His other hand came up, slowly but firmly behind her, as she made to take a step back, the ruby of his eyes never leaving hers as he brought her to his chest. "Just shut up a minute- I meant what I said. I love you. I will never ever leave you again."

He pressed her further into his chest as the trembles that had been threatening to overtake her swamped her form, turning into jagged shakes as she tried to control her raging emotions, and he bent down lower to the ground, finger moving to press lightly across her lips.

"I said just shut up a minute, please. I love you, and if you want guarantee, look at me now. I'm here aren't I?" His mouth twisted into a feral grin as with a muffled growl that sounded suspiciously like 'fuck you, asshole' came from somewhere within the vicinity of his chest, a hand raising in an haphazard fist that he dodge easily as he rocked her more firmly into his arms. "Let me finish! Jesus, I would have thought you'd have seen this already- but it seems as if I have to spell it out-" he grabbed her by the shoulders, ignoring the increasingly spitting fury that she was turning into as his grin grew and he placed her on his lap, nose brushing her ear. "...think it through, Eliza- by all intents and purposes, I should be dead."

Green shone furiously in the fading sunlight as the last remnants of the dusk sun sank into the horizon. There was a flicker and a light crack as the automatic light sensor of the porch light switched on, and she watched as his grin seemed to soften. "And the world would be a happier place if you were."

His brows shot up, a muffled laugh cracking up from his chest, and he leaned forward abruptly, planting a kiss on her burning cheek. "Ha! God, if there was something I didn't miss, it was your humor." His grin grew once more at her startled expression, before he grew serious once more, hand rising to rest lightly on her cheek. "No, seriously, think about it. It wasn't fluke that brought me back, Eliza."

His hand clenched lightly against her cheek as the ruby of his eyes softened, before he was leaning forwards once more, nose brushing her cheek lightly as he kissed her, her cheekbone, her ear, her hair- his hand raising behind her as he clutched her towards him. God, it had been worth it. Through all the pain, the trials. His hand slipped into her hair, immersing themselves in the silky strands, and he smoothed her skin as he cradled her closer, taking in her scent, her touch, her.

Damn it, he'd missed her.

Drawing back a bit as his hands smoothed down her face, he used the bases of his thumbs to wipe away the tracks of tears left her on face, smiling faintly at the permanently shocked expression she seemed to wear. He felt a flicker of some emotion he couldn't describe in his stomach as he watched her tremble briefly once more in his touch, eyes creasing shut as her face turned towards his palm, the pain in her evident, before he moved forward, bringing his lips crashing back down onto hers.

"Don't cry, liebe."

He felt the moisture as it ran down his own face, and smiled at the hypocrisy.

It was worth it.

**Notes**: ...Heh. I'm sorry for my bastardised writing. 8D; I tried to just write this, and forget about the style for the time being; I'm going to practice less stupid style, no worries. 8D;

* * *

><p><strong>TWO<strong>

_**TRAIL**_

_The journey would not be his last; as it was impossible, and he wouldn't allow it. _

Gilbert was standing half-naked in the growing light of the morning, murky grey colouring the creamy expanse of his skin. The city was deserted, the rumble of engines and hooves that normally punctuated life in the city gone, and he closed his eyes, turning his face up with the peace and quiet.

The sun would rise soon, ending the gloom of the twilight, as although; and the grin twitched onto his face; the prospect of the sun still brought him the feeling of happiness, at a new day, a new campaign; the pangs of regret had seeped into his mood, darkening it, the world around him. The regret; that saturated, everything. His eyes flicked back to the skyline, the great silhouettes of the pockmarked buildings; but instead of the splendour, the architecture of Berlin, the size and strength of his city, still standing even now, after all these years, he could only see the shadows that lingered in the craters of the shells: the realism.

The realism, that forced him to confront the truth of his situation, the outcome-

"-fuck!" He shook his head, hands raising to smooth back his hair as he turned a grimaced smile to the sun; he didn't, and he wouldn't, regret this. His smile grew, as he took another deep breath of the cold air, the bite of the cold sending shivers from his fingers to his toes,and he enjoyed the sensation, the proof that he was alive.- as fuck, he was, wasn't he? A laugh choked out from between his teeth, loud and obnoxious in the quiet. Fuck, they wouldn't get him yet. He was still alive, and had every intention to remain so.

"Fuck. Gott. Reiss dich zusammen."

There was a faint noise in the distance, the loud screech of tires; and Gilbert looked up. The sound of raised voices reached him, and, grin growing, he raised his arm, in a half-hearted salute. Life. The Autobahn. The loud screeches continued, increasing in pitch and volume, and Gilbert looked down from his spot on top of the bench, watching the road as an automobile careened past, eyebrow raised in bemusement as it barely made the corner. It was like a careless puppy; so playful, full of life. Life that would now be his; although different, with the segmentation of his country.

There was a pang of pain in his chest, and his grin faltered, hand moving to rest across the spot lightly as he took another breath. It would be different. It just would take some adjustment.

His grip tightened, but after a second the bite in his chest increased, and, managing a wheezed cough as he stumbled forward a step, he doubled over, letting out a racketing wretch. He didn't have time to gasp for air as the convulsion came again, and he dry-heaved onto the concrete, the cold slab scratching from his nose lightly. The noise continued, and after a minute, the ground was speckled in dark spots of crimson of his blood.

His trembles subsided, and Gilbert regained control, a trembling hand reaching up to wipe his lips. Crouching there, trembling for a second, he regarded the mess, before using the edge of the gloves to clean up the blood, tossing the material to the side when he was done. With a shaky breath, Gilbert was able to regain his feet, picking up his former pace again.

To anyone, ever, damn it. That wasn't how things were done here, in Berlin- in _his_ capital, as it was, and will forever be. A smirk twisted his lips at that; although he would disappear, seem to disappear, he wouldn't- couldn't, ever be removed. Just changed. He came up along the side of the building, and almost without his willing it, his arm lifted, fingers running down the bricks, staining the pale concrete with dark, blackened crimson in the half light. Watching the trail of his blood as it extended down the side of the American Embassy of Berlin, Gilbert grinned at the marks, the stain- his stain, continuing down, until his footsteps halted, at the end of the street. His street, Kurfurstendamm. He looked back, and his flicker of red examined the marks as it extended down what had been his home, before focusing on the reddening sky. The first rays of sun filtered through the clouds on the horizon.

…If needs be, he would become this city's ghost. But he wouldn't leave. He wouldn't die. There was a guttural noise, before Gilbert fell to his knees and slumped forward.

_There was a change in the sound of his footsteps below him. Gilberts footsteps slowed, eyes flicking down distractedly- before he had finally focussed, and after a moments consideration, come to a stop. Steam rose lightly from a nearby house, although the bombing had ended with the armistice a week earlier. A normal 'sight' now, wasn't it? Nose wrinkling slightly, Gilbert stepped to the side to avoid it. Stepping past the piles of smouldering brick, he moved to the remains of a collapsed doorway and made a move to pass it, uncaring of the smears of ash that left streaked marks across his boots, as he stepped though, eyes flicking to the ground as his head was lowered- _

_The step stopped where it fell, Gilbert freezing entirely, as his gaze hit the mangled corpse of a baby in the remains of it's cradle in the room he'd been about to bypass, and after a second, he drew back, stumbling backwards until he could rest his back against the remainder of one of the foundation walls. His gaze never left the sight of the baby however; the blackened curl of skin, the glimmer of white where the bone had broken through._

**LANGUAGE NOTES: ****  
><strong>**Translation - God. Pull yourself together****  
><strong>**Kurfurstendamm = Boulevard built by the Brandenburg regent, when Brandenurg was a central part of Prussia. ono' Basically, built in 16th Century from capital to Grunewald, his hunting castle, and is currently a popular shopping street. 83 It may have been a shopping street at the time of the Berlin partition, I have no idea of it's role in the partition, forgive that innaccuracy; but it was a main street in the capital of Prussia that I am using as a monument for Gilbert to leave his mark on. xD****  
><strong>**MY NOTES: Assume that when the dissolution happened in 1947, the effects took place at sunrise the next day. lD**


	3. Junk Food: the result of the unexpected

**Junk Food.**

**SPAIN/GERMANY  
><strong>

**AN/** D:;; This. Is just like junk food. You have too much, and you'll get fat and your teeth will fall out. Only it's the parallel occurrences in your brain. …Woot. 8D; I sorta like the end, but hate the beginning. D: The end, I think I went more into the style I wanted it to be in - less simple and crap and shiz. xD READIT.

* * *

><p>There was a rustle of cloth, before a muffled crash reached him from the opposite side of the darkened room as Ludwig was jolted awake with a cough, blinking blearily as he struggled to think through the lingering fog in his mind. His hands were constricted, and his heart skipped in his chest as he quickly moved to release them, tugging harshly, before he found the source to be a bundle of coats. After a second of feeling around blindly, he affirmed the fact that yes, he was wrapped around them, and he gentled his movements; it wasn't his house, after all, thus he shouldn't damage others belongings. Blinking tiredly, he leaned back until he could slide his hands out easily, before resting back down with a sigh. The comfortable king-size bed he'd collapsed half-deliriously into an hour ago had turned out, indeed, to be Alfred's coat closet.<p>

There was another crash, forcing Ludwig onto his feet as his body moved instinctively, perching on the edge of the mess he had made his nest. At the following hushed "mirda!" he opened his eyes, catching the shadowed outline of a man just before it ran into his sprawled leg, sending him jolting into awareness at the contact. He heard the phrase 'aah, mirda!' repeated again before Ludwig felt the hands on his leg, pawing at his body blearily until they could feel his face, tracing the lines of his jaw and cheekbone lightly.

"Luh-ludwig? Loovig? Lo siento, lo siento…"

The words trailed off into silence as, after a minute, the hands left his skin, a small hiccough filling the space between them as the man moved with another rustle of cloth to sit on his ankles, and Ludwig eyes adjusted just enough to recognise the lazy curls as they tilted with the cocked angle of the Spaniard's head. Brow furrowing lightly as Ludwig tried to bring his mind back into focus, he finally found his words, managing to cough out a quiet: "Antonio?"

The silhouetted curls bounced lightly in response as the opposing man nodded. "Si – and you are Ludwig- loovig, correct?"

Ludwig felt the hands on his knees as the leaned back towards him, squinting through the darkened room to see his features more clearly; the shadow seemed to sway in the lingering thumps of the debauched base, although he was out of time to the music. As hazed blue met dilated deep chestnut, the German inclined his head awkwardly in assent, nose wrinkling lightly as haphazard blonde strands brushed against the tip with the movement; the Spaniard was about as indisposed as he was when he'd first stumbled into this little room and collapsed on this mess of coats to sleep. Ludwig frowned with the realisation, causing the Spaniard to jolt a little with the abruptness of the action as he fought to keep track of the change of emotions across the other mans face.

"Damn it, Alfred – he must have spiked the drinks; as there was no way all of the attending nations of his annual Christmas party would be drunk _in the first hour-_ otherwise."

The Spaniard formed a lopsided smile, returning the nod sloppily as he grinned and muttered a faint 'si, si, Alfred…' before a huff of air disturbed the air between them and the Spaniard leant back with a sigh, placing himself back on his ankles as he angled to get up again- before his grip slipped, and he was sent sprawling with a yelp face first onto the German's chest.

Ludwig jolted at the sudden weight, broken from his thoughts as he felt the air push out of him in a huff and a flurry of muffled curses as he managed to drag his focus back to the Spaniard, now between his legs, as his hands flurried in a whirl to manoeuvre the mans light frame off of the German. Ludwig managed a blink slowly in surprise as there was a final 'mirda' and he felt two warm hands smooth over his shoulders, before he could focus enough on the man as both the hands pressed down on his shoulders, working to lever himself up-

He barely had the time to acknowledge the man as he levered himself up, before his strength was giving out, and Ludwig had thrown his arms rapidly, managing to catch the falling Spaniard just before he crashed back onto his chest.

There was a minute of subdued panting as they both fought to focus to find their bearings, Ludwig's arms loosening from his tight grip around Antonio, before the Spaniard gave a tired, muffled laugh, patting Ludwig's chest weakly.

"Grash- Gracias, amigo- you, you wouldn't mind if I just slept here, would you, Loovig?" The German shook his head mutedly, unable to do anything else as his mind, not knowing what else to do, shut down, his eyes shutting once more soon after. The Spaniard managed another lopsided smile, eyes shutting gratefully as well as he whispered his last words on a sigh. "Gracias, amigo."


End file.
